


A Christmas Truce

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bisexual Female Character, Bisexuality, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Finger Sucking, Height Differences, Holidays, Post-Hogwarts, Rough Kissing, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2019-01-08 14:11:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12255981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: Ginny's the star athlete of the Holyhead Harpies, and Pansy's a sharp-tongued reporter. They meet at a holiday party, and one year later, after a year of friendship and a lifetime of regrets and possibly one too many drinks at the Burrow, they fall into bed together.





	A Christmas Truce

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maraudersaffair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maraudersaffair/gifts).



> I confess I never even considered this pairing before, but I was intrigued by the prompts you'd given for them. I ended up unable to get them out of my head and sat down and typed most of this up in one frantic sit-down, so I hope you like it! (I also started reading some of the other fics for this pairing on AO3, so thank you again for turning me on to this ship!)
> 
> I also gently lifted 'playing for the harpies' as wizarding slang from [Fresh Starts, Old Hearts.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10223405)

Ginny knocks her glass into her teammates’, mumbles appropriately through the toast— they’re all good wishes anyway, never mind that she’s lost track somewhere between the fourth and fifth drink, never mind that she’s taking tiny sips and splashing everywhere to mask how little she’s actually drunk— and lets out that famous Holyhead Harpies screech, sending the rest of the pub into wild spasms of applause. She could get used to this, even with too much cranberry in the drinks and her spiked heels gone all sticky with pumpkin ale, the way the pub’s all lit in sherbet-bursts of color and holiday cheer. She’s a damn _celebrity_ now, can’t go into her own brother’s joke shop without seeing her face grinning from the newsstand and her hair snapping behind her like a banner. Even the interviews have gone from quizzing her on Harry, famous Harry, _hero_ Harry, heartthrob of every witch, wizard and wixen who’s not old enough to remember him as the skinny boy with Spellotape glasses on the Hogwarts train, to now asking her about her own damn achievements.

She laughs again, tosses back her hair— that famous Weasley red, brighter than a bottle— and signs some bloke’s napkin, signs a pretty girl’s cleavage, winks and leans in close enough to smell the lady’s perfume, all peppermint and schnapps, and proudly adjusts the new scarf she’s got, the pink, purple, blue that clashes against her hair like fireworks, all bright sizzle and sparks, and if anyone’s going to comment on it well then they can go shove their head down the loo. ‘Playing for the Harpies’ is a common enough bit of slang to say that a girl’s interested in other girls, but in the whole aftermath of the war so many wixen have gotten interested in Muggle culture— partly because of the famous Harry Potter, may she ever escape his everlasting shadow, partly as pushback against the Death Eaters, some way of showing solidarity and interest in those many many lives around them. Magical folks can hardly afford to live in isolation anymore, not with these things like _video_ and _Internet_ becoming so common, and have learned all sorts of new terms for things that were always felt, but never spoken.

Ginny’s bisexual, thank you very much, and proud of it.

“Doing quite well, looking forward to another season!” she hollers to yet another reporter asking about the team, then, “Thank you, love, always knew it, just didn’t have words for it!” to some spiky-haired blonde with positively liquid eyes and a darling septum ring, and it’s not being _brave_ so much as learning to ignore limits, that anything’s possible if you aren’t afraid to just reach for what you want, whether it’s a locked broom shed or your childhood crush. And sometimes, learning that it’s okay to put them back when you’ve outgrown them.

Eventually Ginny pushes her way to the back, rounds past the bathrooms and sneaks into the alley for a bit of a breather. It’s one of those blue December nights with the sky shrunk to pinpricks of light and memory, your own heat fogging out from you like a hungry ghost.

“Fancy a smoke?” says a familiar voice. Sharp face, dark hair, and Ginny know the perfect arch of the brow and the lips curled in disdain even as she turns.

“Skulking, Pansy?”

“Not skulking. Just snuck out for a light. Figured I’d do the friendly thing and offer,” Pansy shrugs, one of those elegant boneless numbers that could mean anything at all. The slim cigarette smells of cloves and anise, the ember a faint purple that ebbs to green, and the scent subtly changes to something sharp and green. Rosemary and lemon, how odd.

“Since when have we ever been friendly?” Ginny says, but she holds out her palm and takes the cigarette anyway. She sets the filter to her lips and ducks over so Pansy can light it with a silver cigarette lighter that’s probably worth more than all the Weasley fine china.

Pansy chuckles, tilting her head back to blow a single, flawless ring. “Since you have become a very interesting person to know, Weasley.”

“If you’re angling for an interview, you’re doing a piss-poor job of it,” Ginny says, and her cigarette glows red. Smoke and cherry, like rich brandy. She does not inhale.

“Who said I’m angling for an interview?” Pansy asks, and something else finally clicks for Ginny. Pansy is wearing _Muggle_ clothes, tight jeans and dragon leather boots but styled so they wouldn’t look out of place in a Muggle fashion shoot, tiny buttons of silver and gold and Ginny can recognize the protective charms woven in subtle patterns over Pansy’s thick coat. Says something that even the Slytherin purebloods have given up in the face of the latest trends.

“You’ve never done something that didn’t benefit you, Parkinson.”

“Could say the same for you, Weasley. You and your lot have done awfully well.”

“You and your lot were ready to turn Harry over to _Voldemort_ ,” Ginny snaps, fingers itching against the cigarette. It’s shifted to something sour and citrus, puckers her tongue against the hexes rising in her throat.

Pansy does not flinch at the name, but the hard set of her lips shows she must have been expecting that one. “I was perfectly horrible for other reasons, you know. Part of Umbridge’s Inquisitorial Squad, _and_ a prefect under the Carrows. Give me full credit for more than just one thing, to one boy.” Her jaw tightens. “I was seventeen and afraid,” she adds evenly. “Not my proudest moment, but we’ve all done things we weren’t proud of, now haven’t we? We pick our sides and hope we survive.”

“‘We pick our—’” Ginny starts, then narrows her eyes. “This is an ambush, isn’t it? You’ve been talking with Percy.”

“Like I said, Weasley. You and your lot have done awfully well.” Pansy snorts, drops her stub and grinds it beneath her heel. It scrapes against the asphalt. “He was sniffing around for a Ministry job, my family’s still got connections, we connected.” She rolls her eyes. “He’s a bore, but he tries.”

“So you think that since you did Perce a favor, I owe you one now?”

“Only if you want to,” Pansy says. She leans forward and tugs Ginny’s scarf so it skews awry. “Call this a Christmas truce, Weasley. Haven’t caught up in ages, nice seeing you.”

She turns back into the pub, door swinging behind her, and leaves Ginny shivering in the cold.

. . .

Christmas holidays turn into New Year celebrations and another whirl of parties and galas and intimate dinners of dozens at the Burrow, during which Ginny corners Percy against the stairs and demands to know what business he’s got with Pansy.

“Absolutely nothing, I swear. She booked me an appointment with Madam Malkin for robes, then arranged lunch with the interim Head of the Department of Magical Transportation. I’ve treated her to lunch—”

“That’s not ‘nothing,’ Perce!” Ginny hisses, over the distant roar of George letting off a series of party crackers. “I went to _school_ with her, I know she’s not—”

“I went to school with her too, you know!” Percy bellows, red in the face as he struggles to be heard. “People only change if you give them a chance, Ginny!”

His words echo in the abrupt silence following the party crackers, and he flushes scarlet to the tips of his ears.

“He’s quite right, you know,” Luna says, drifting from some unseen cranny. She has a festive pair of glittery earrings, like some Muggle disco ball, and her hair has been braided into a high knot and set with what appears to be tinsel. “Sometimes, you must accept that people with more money than talent _do_ choose to share their gifts.” She tugs along a young man in a suit that wouldn’t look out of place in a Muggle business meeting.

“I prefer ‘more money than morals,’ but what do I know?” mutters her friend, and Ginny clenches her fists tight against her side.

“I never thought I’d see Draco Malfoy in the Burrow,” Ginny grits out.

“I did ask Mrs Weasley for permission,” Luna says mildly. “I just pointed out that the manor’s been quite chilly as of late. Draco might have caught pneumonia.”

Draco coughs awkwardly into his fist, shifting his weight from side to side. “You’re looking good, Ginny. Congratulations against the Cannons.”

“Thank you,” Ginny replies automatically, though she locks eyes with Luna and jerks her chin towards the stairs.

Ginny stomps up to her old bedroom, Luna in tow, and throws her hands up in the air. “What are you doing with _Malfoy_?”

“He reached out after my latest treatise on the Erumpent, and offered to help fund my travels across Europe,” Luna says calmly, sitting on the edge of the bed and smoothing the comforter with one hand. “Did you know, Muggles have these things they call ‘cryptids’ and I think some of them may overlap with our own documented magical creatures, but some of them could be entirely new to our studies? Tatzelwurms I think must be some variety of dragon, and shore laddies superficially resemble—”

“So he’s still buying people, you mean.”

Luna wrinkles her nose, and pats the mattress. Ginny sits down, lets Luna start braiding her hair. “You know, sometimes I think about how lucky you are to have a mother who’s all warm and caring, and you have this enormous family that wraps you like a giant cozy blanket. You can make any choice you want, as long as you’re trying your best, and they’d welcome you back with open arms. I could get quite jealous of you, sometimes.” She ties off the braid, sets it over Ginny’s shoulder. “Is it a flower’s fault what pot it grows in?”

“Are you saying I should feel _sorry_ for him?”

“Draco says her favorite animals are unicorns,” Luna says, which is no answer at all.

. . .

When Ginny next sees Pansy, she’s spitting blood as the medical witches take her off the field, Snitch clutched triumphantly and held high for the roaring crowd. Pansy’s sitting in the reporting boxes off the side, an acid-green quill tucked behind her ear and still wearing that Muggle-magic chic, and there’s a tight heave inside Ginny’s lungs that might just be the aftermath of getting hit by the Bludger.

Ginny fields the usual flurry of inquiry after, makes sure to smile bright through bloody teeth and to crack the roughest jokes, because everyone wants a piece of Ginny but Ginny knows damn well how dangerous it is to give yourself away, to _really_ give your darkest secrets and fears. She’s a girl, she’s a flame, she’s her own blaze of glory. Not _reckless_ , no, because that implies you don’t care, you don’t _think_ , but Ginny decides to be just a little bit reckless when she invites Pansy to the after-game party, where Pansy sips on some watery-looking thing she calls a milk punch and Ginny sucks down butterbeer on account of the healers recommending nothing stronger for the next day or two.

“Take any more Bludgers like that and you’ll look your sparkling good looks, Weasley,” Pansy says, rubbing her twist of lemon against the rim of the glass.

Ginny snorts, flipping her hair back in that choreographed carelessness that’s become her signature move. “Good thing I’ve got looks to spare, then.”

“And you say _I’m_ the arrogant one,” Pansy sniffs, setting aside her lemon peel and sipping her drink. “Good on you. No shame in recognizing what you’ve got.”

Ginny bites back a laugh. “Who taught you that one? Surely you didn’t come up with that yourself.”

“Mrs Zabini,” Pansy says, lips curving up in a wicked grin. She has _dimples_ , and the fact that Ginny’s known her since Hogwarts and never realized this temporarily bowls her over. “Nothing like having the most famously beautiful witch of recent history around when you’re going through puberty. She taught me to do makeup and let me borrow her clothes— or what fit, at least— and was ruthlessly efficient in telling me it was all hopeless anyway. Girl like me has to make do with brains and connections.”

Ginny’s breath stutters. “That’s cruel.”

“It’s true,” Pansy says, taking another sip of her drink. She doesn’t seem remotely bothered by it, which only makes it worse. “I’m not a dog, but I’m hardly a Mrs Zabini-class beauty either. And men are fickle, shallow beasts. I think I’ve rather given them up for now.”

“Focusing on your career?”

Pansy rolls her eyes. “Morgana’s tits, Ginny, how thick can you be? You’re not the only bi lady here, you know.” She loops her thumb under her necklace, a long chain with a double-headed axe for a pendant. Jingles it. “But yes, career too. Can’t count on pureblood money or a pureblood name anymore.”

“Money _always_ means something, Pansy.” Ginny realizes after she’s said it that they’re on a first-name basis now, and it would be the kind of thing she’d slap herself for if it weren’t for the open revulsion on Pansy’s face.

“Money’s in the _family_ , Weasley. Which I am no longer part of,” Pansy says bitingly.

“Wait— because you’re bi?”

“Not because I was snogging girls, but because I was snogging _Muggle_ girls,” Pansy says. She drains the rest of her drink in one long gulp, slamming the glass back on the counter. “And I can see you want to ask, so here’s my deal: you buy my next drink, I’ll tell you. If your questions last longer than my drink, you owe me an interview. _Exclusive_.”

Ginny flags the bartender and buys the next drink, thoughts gone helter-skelter like dry leaves in an autumn wind. “Wait, so when did _you_ start snogging Muggles?”

“When a recent war showed that maybe the old ways of thinking, about blood purity and Muggleborns, might all be utterly shit,” Pansy says flatly. “And when you start reading all sorts of interesting Muggle literature, and realize there’s a thing called ‘compulsory heterosexuality’ where maybe, it makes you reevaluate why the hell you were always paying so much attention to other girls’ appearances and judging and comparing and why you always bothered so much more with them than with the boys. Not that boys aren’t nice, mind you,” she adds, taking a sip. “I rather liked Draco, before he got all painfully maudlin and redemptive, but they always…” Her voice trails off, lips pressed flat. “They always try to _consume_ you, you know. They’re used to being the centers of their own darling little universes. You find yourself sucked into their narrative, treated like an extension of _them_. Wanting someone isn’t the same as loving them.”

Ginny unsticks her tongue from the roof of her mouth, heart hammering her ribs. “So that explains girls, but not Muggles.”

“Wizarding world’s small. Easier to go to some of the Muggle bars, meet up with people. Try to find my own legs, out there on my own, among strangers. There’s…” Pansy waves vaguely, takes another sip of her drink. “There’s just so much _world_ out there. I wanted to figure out my own labels before carrying them home to Mother-dearest.”

If that’s not Pansy’s heart, ripped out and bleeding on the table, then Ginny will eat her own scarf.

“I had no idea,” she says finally.

Pansy bares her teeth. “I don’t need your pity, Weasley.” She sloshes her glass menacingly, only half an inch of cocktail left at the bottom. “More questions?”

Ginny shakes her head, but offers the interview anyway.

. . .

After that, it’s like they’re planetary bodies trapped in each other’s orbits. Ginny’s a star Quidditch player and Pansy’s a reporter, so it’s not so odd, but they mouth each other’s last names politely in public, less politely in interviews as Pansy fires needle-sharp questions meant to prick Ginny’s vanity and Ginny snarls back with flamboyant intensity. It’s a drama, a piece of all their other performances, and they go back to first names over drinks and laugh and reminisce over old times and new, the funny and less-than-funny stories of school and just how _strange_ it feels to revisit shared memories with new perspective.

“Woof, but that year with the Triwizard Cup? My gown was hideous. Someone should have told me that pink was just not my color,” Pansy sighs. Then she snickers. “Of course, _several_ people did. Shame I didn’t listen to them.”

“It wasn’t _so_ bad, except for the ruffles,” Ginny protests, in defense of pink.

“Kind of you to say, but utterly untrue,” Pansy snorts. “You looked lovely though,” she adds, almost as an afterthought. “Neville didn’t know how lucky he was.”

“Oh, he did. I liked him, though I don’t think he really grew into himself until fifth year.”

“He just sprouted up, didn’t he? Who’d have thought that pudgy little Neville would have looked so good,” Pansy sighs. “I like confidence in my women, humility in my men, and both of them to tower over me by a good six inches.”

Ginny becomes keenly aware of her own high heels and the fact that Pansy comes up to her sternum.

“What did you ever see in Malfoy, then?” she asks, coughing to cover up her sudden case of the flusters.

“An ally,” Pansy says, not unkindly. “We grew up together. He was cruel enough to be entertaining, and utterly charming when he chose. Or at least arrogant, which is close enough to confidence if you hold your nose.”

. . .

The seasons turn, with Ginny receiving all sorts of fascinating postcards from Luna. She marks the months with postcards from Russia, Germany, and Switzerland, giving brightly nondescript details of her trip, snippets like “Awfully warm today, almost got bit by a badger, but no harm done,” or “Saw a lovely cloud, reminded me of a mermaid taking a bath. Would have taken a picture, except then the kelpie got my knee.” Ginny makes sure to send care packages of healing salve and sunblock.

The Holyhead Harpies continue stringing up victories like beads, pretty baubles that clash and clatter and call attention to themselves, because what’s the point of winning if you’re not _recognized_ , after all?

Ginny celebrates with her team, of course, and normally she’d knock a few with Luna as well, but with Luna abroad and Hermione distressingly dull to drink with, Ginny spends more time with Pansy. They hit up the witch pubs, where rainbow fairy lights cast their shadows in blue and purple, and even crawl the gay Muggle clubs where they’re just two more faces out of many and the only magic’s in the rhythm of breath and hips. They dance close, sometimes, Ginny’s chin on Pansy’s head and thighs pressed tight, but they closest they ever get to kissing is when they swap a cigarette back and forth outside, the smoke chaining their lungs. Ginny doesn’t even smoke, really, hates tobacco, but she always accepts when Pansy offers one of her disgustingly luxurious cigarettes with the ever-changing flavor.

They go to Muggle concerts and movies, screaming along with every song and feeding each other fistfuls of popcorn in dark theaters. Ginny helps Pansy pass her Muggle driving test, and Pansy repays her with a massive loaf of walnut cake, dense as a brick but utterly divine from the first bite to the very last crumb.

So when the next Weasley holiday party comes, Ginny knows she _has_ to invite Pansy.

“Meeting the parents? Already?” Pansy laughs, but Ginny swats her with a napkin over breakfast at their favorite cafe.

“If you keep making fun, I’ll _un-_ invite you,” Ginny says severely.

Pansy steals a piece of bacon from Ginny’s plate, deftly avoiding Ginny’s next swat. “Doesn’t work that way. I’m like a vampire— once I’m in, I’m _in_. Can’t evict me. I’m a bloody parasite.”

. . .

Pansy shows up dressed in black, only a touch of silver liner about her eyes to indicate she’s at a party rather than a funeral. She offers Mrs Weasley a bottle of Ogden’s, and is promptly glitter-bombed by George’s latest Weasleys’ Wizard Wheeze.

“George, not in the _kitchen_!” Mrs Weasley roars, brandishing her ladle.

“Hello there!” Mr Weasley says brightly, ambushing them with a smile and an armful of festive rubber ducks, each one wearing a Christmas hat and holding a candy cane. “Are you Ginny’s beau, then?”

“ _Dad!”_

Pansy shakes her head, not the slightest bit mortified despite standing there covered in glitter. “No, and even if I were, I don’t fancy I’m butch enough,” she says reflectively. “‘Datemate’ has a certain ring to it though. I’m Pansy, pleasure to meet you.”

There’s greetings all around, hugs and kisses and various states of dancing as the radio croons, and Pansy trails glitter everywhere like a cheap cinema queen. _Everyone_ asks if they’re dating, Harry with his somber ‘save the world’ expression and George with a cackle and a barely-hidden disappointment when the answer’s no. They drink cup after cup of mulled cider and hot cocoa splashed with whiskey, Pansy deigning to ask Percy to dance (“even though you’re not _quite_ tall enough, Weasley,” and making him stammer) and George happily flopping into Angelina’s lap. Hermione giggles and twirls and one-step, two-steps her way across the floor to Ginny, who spins her in her arms and dips her low enough that Ron cries “careful!” before setting her back on her feet and kissing her nose.

Maybe it’s the cider, maybe it’s the dancing, maybe it’s that Ginny’s had some here-to undiscovered lust for glitter, but Pansy practically _glows_. She’s sharp and cutting, cheeks flushed and lipstick on her teeth, messy and flawed and utterly years beyond the petty school-age cruelty that Ginny first remembered.

She forgets how she says it, as soon as the words leave her mouth. Just knows she was leaning in close, close enough to smell the clove-and-rum scent of Pansy’s perfume, unless that’s just the residue of cider and too much pie, but either way it’s _Pansy_ and smells good enough to scarf down whole.

“Go home? With _you_?” Pansy drawls, dragging her nails down Ginny’s arm. “Why Ginny, I’d be _delighted_.”

They Apparate away from the party and stumble through Ginny’s flat, past the precariously heaped laundry and unlit holiday candles and onto Ginny’s twin bed, which she hardly ever uses because she travels all over for games and suddenly seems far too small for the two of them.

Ginny claws at Pansy’s blouse and kicks off one shoe, then the other, sending them thudding into the wall as she struggles to undo Pansy’s buttons. Pansy slaps her hand away, then undoes her own blouse with quick, efficient snaps. She pulls it off and drops it off the edge of the bed, straddling Ginny’s hips. Her breasts are small and perfect, shimmering because _yes_ , the glitter’s gone here too, and Pansy unhooks her bra to toss it on the floor.

“Ginny, Ginny—” Pansy croons, holding Ginny’s wrists and leaning forward. She’s a small thing, can only pin Ginny down because Ginny’s letting her, but Ginny moans anyway. “Ginny, I want one thing crystal clear, okay? This is not some _fucking_ redemption. This isn’t you ‘saving’ me with the power of love or pussy, this is just because _you_ want it, _I_ want it. Sweat and sex, just us.”

“Pansy— what the hell—”

“Promise me, Weasley,” Pansy says, hair falling around her face. Her pupils are blown wide, lips twisted in a snarl and lipstick smudged like blood. “Chew me up, spit me out, just promise not to _change_ me.”

This is her heart, bleeding on the table. Whether it’s a year of friendship or a lifetime of regret or too many drinks in the warmth of a family that’s never cast her out, this is Pansy. Raw, unfiltered.

“Pansy, I couldn’t if I bloody _tried_ ,” Ginny hisses, and the world shimmers in tears and glitter as Pansy mashes her lips into Ginny’s, devouring. Their teeth click, bone and bone, and Ginny laughs into Pansy’s mouth as Pansy growls. Ginny tries to pull up her sweater and Pansy runs up her hands up the new-exposed band of skin, nails pricking the tender flesh beneath her ribs. Hooked, clawing, like she could carve her into pieces, disassemble and piece her back together like a broken mirror. They grapple and twist, nails on skin, flesh on flesh, breath between lungs as they undress in bits and pieces. Ginny takes forever and a half to shimmy out of her jeans, slowed by Pansy’s long suck of teeth and tongue against her neck. Ginny winces, swears, and Pansy laughs because she knows it’ll leave a mark, but Ginny just doesn’t _care_ and finally kicks her legs out of the jeans, letting them drop in a jangle of buttons and denim.

Pansy’s naked now, gloriously nude and shivering with lust and—

“I’m _freezing_!” Pansy yelps through chattering teeth, thoroughly puncturing _that_ fantasy. She thaws nicely as Ginny wraps them into the blankets. They pull the covers over their heads and stay warm, briskly rubbing each other’s arms and bellies and squealing when Pansy puts her cold hand between Ginny’s thighs, so Ginny retaliates by squeezing her own cold hands on Pansy’s arse. The laughter warms them, and they turn to slower caresses, lingering touches.

Ginny rolls herself on top of Pansy, presses her thumb to Pansy’s lips. Pansy opens her mouth, swirls her tongue about the tip in one long melt of warmth and wet, wraps her lips over it. She sucks, adds the slow drag of her teeth, eyes locked with Ginny’s, and repeats on the first two fingers of Ginny’s hand before imperiously pointing to her clit.

“Finger me, Ginny, unless you’re _finally_ going to use that mouth for— _ooh_ ,” Pansy sighs, bucking against Ginny’s hand but otherwise pinned. Ginny grinds down with her thigh, thumb wedged under the hood of Pansy’s clit with two fingers curled inside. Pansy’s gloriously hot and slippery, hissing and moaning as Ginny works her fingers until she finds that ridged spot, _presses_ and Pansy’s whole body goes taut as Ginny works her thumb in tiny circles, nuzzles and licks at Pansy’s collarbone, growls and bites until Pansy’s in a screaming frenzy, her hands in Ginny’s hair and twisted tight against the scalp. Pansy’s _vicious_ as she comes, her voice gone shatter-sharp and pulling so hard that Ginny’s vision goes white-hot until Pansy collapses in her own sweat, slick with rut and heaving exhaustion.

“Elphaba’s arse, get off me. You hulking Amazon,” Pansy groans at last, squeezing Ginny’s hand.

Ginny rolls aside, grinning. Kisses the tip of Pansy’s nose. “My turn?”

Pansy’s lips twitch. “You’ve got glitter on your mouth, you twit.”

“So that’s a yes?”

Pansy laughs, tugging her close. “Only because I like you.”


End file.
